


Facing Fate

by Britpacker



Series: Future Books [2]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Follows on from “Some Future Book”.  Trip accepts the attraction exists.  He’s just not sure he knows how to deal with it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Unless you’ve read the first part of what’s becoming a bit of an “epic” (I only intended 2 chapters – honest!) this probably won’t make much sense… proceed at your peril! The whole “future book” idea has developed as I’ve gone along into yet another series.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To summarise Pt I: While aboard the future ship (spoilers, 2.16 “Future Tense”), Trip’s seen the name of the person he’s going to marry. It’s started him off on a path he’d never even considered….

Tucker's next stop was the old standby: porn. It didn't work.

In fact when he brought himself off watching the lucky bastard wedged between a pair of gorgeous Scandinavian twins, things got worse. Because the name he cried out, loud enough to be heard back on Jupiter Station, was Reed's.

He tried flirting with Hoshi on the bridge: hovering near her station, squeezing her shoulder and leaving his hand just a little too long when she translated another string of dog-like alien syntax without getting them shot up. The first time he did it she looked up at him as if he'd started spouting fluent Andorian. 

The next movie night he slipped into a seat next to her. "You mind a little company, Hosh?"

"Not at all." She flashed him a cordial smile and shifted her popcorn bowl toward him. "Just try not to eat it all, okay?"

"Ah'll always share with you, darlin'." He batted his lashes extravagantly. 

Hoshi's laugher rose over the opening titles. "I don't know what you're on, Trip Tucker, but you need to come off it fast," she announced.

"Just high on good company, Ensign."

Satisfied she wasn't taking his clumsy game seriously he complimented her new lip gloss on the bridge the following morning and invited himself to share her table at lunch, reducing her to side-splitting giggles with his overplayed gentlemanliness in fetching her tea and fine-cutting her meat. 

All it got him when they returned arm-in-arm to the bridge was a sideways look from the captain's chair and another of those nostril-flaring, lip-thinning _looks_ from the tactical console. 

He was, Tucker congratulated himself, giving the lower ranks a laugh at his expense. And if it had the effect of driving Reed back into the shell he had occupied the first few weeks aboard, when only Travis had seemed capable of getting a smile out of his old friend, it also meant the Brit was actively evading Charles Tucker's off-duty company.

Leading him not into temptation. That was the whole idea, right? 

When the Chief Engineer entered the mess, the Armoury Officer would make his excuses and leave, meal barely touched. He seemed to have changed his usual gym times; where they'd often arrived together before, Trip now got there to find Malcolm headed for the showers. 

What the Southerner hadn't expected was the way that coincidence ruined his workouts. Too many images of that sinewy body under the water's flow meant a curtailed fitness regime and a rapid waddle back to the privacy of the senior staff deck. 

Hoshi, he knew, laughed her ass off every time his back turned. Not so Daddy Archer.

*

"Commander. My ready room."

From the helm station Mayweather swung to make a discreet throat-cut gesture behind the captain's back. T'Pol bestirred herself to lift the tip of an eyebrow. Hoshi and Reed kept their eyes on their readouts. Exhaling between his teeth, Trip marched from his new station at the comms officer's shoulder, past his C.O. and into the execution chamber.

"What in hell are you thinking of, Trip?" Archer barely waited for the door to shut before launching his first salvo. "Hoshi's not some alien fling you can kiss goodbye and forget. She's a member of this crew and a senior professional colleague. You can't just - just _toy_ with her like this!"

Indignation protected him from any finer feeling. "C'mon, Cap'n, you know I'm just kiddin'! Hoshi's like a little sister to me!"

Jade eyes pierced him with a narrow stare Tucker felt sure must be drawing blood. "Let's just say some people are getting misconceptions about Southern boys and their sisters," Archer grated, his knuckles showing white from clasped brown hands. "You may not care, but there are rumours going around the lower decks. I won't have scandal around my senior staff. You're just fooling around, but Hoshi's sensitive."

"Captain." Careful pronunciation to emphasise his seriousness. Tucker paused long enough to ensure the meaning wasn't lost on a man too agitated to stand still. "Hoshi doesn't think of me that way. Hell, she doesn't even see me as a man, I'm just Trip!"

"Are you sure about that? You're a good-looking guy, she's a beautiful woman, and..."

_Uh-oh. You think I'm treading on your toes, huh?_

Archer stopped his restless pacing - two strides one way, then two back to the other side of the tiny room - and scowled, as if his friend were somehow responsible for the betrayal of his secrets. "I don't want to see anybody hurt, Commander. Do I make myself clear?" he rapped.

"Yessir." Damn. Now he'd hurt Johnny; caused potential embarrassment for Hoshi; and made a damn fool of himself in the process. _Time to come clean, Tucker._

"I got no designs on Hoshi, Cap'n." His shoulders slumped; at the back of his eyeballs he could feel a telltale, traitorous sting. "Guess you could say I'm hidin' behind her."

Ambient temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Archer's full lips thinned into a barely-visible line. "If you're trying to make me angry here, you're succeeding," he grated. "You're _using_ her?"

"No!" Immediate outrage ran smack into guilty honesty. Tucker thrust a shaky hand back through his dark blond hair. "Yes. Maybe. I don't mean to hurt anyone. I'm just so damn confused!"

"You're not the only one," Archer growled, throwing himself into the single chair. "But I'm not worried about you. I've heard the scuttlebutt on the lower decks. You're going to make Hoshi's life difficult, Commander, and you don't want that any more than I do: do you?"

"No, Sir." He felt like a small boy; and what was worse, guilty as hell for making Johnny confront the uncomfortable truth of his feelings for a certain pretty linguist young enough to be his daughter. 

It seemed unfair not to let out a little secret of his own.

"I've started havin' feelin's for someone." Now he sounded like that tongue-tied little boy too. Archer's bushy brows shot up.

"So?" 

"Uh, well, it's not someone I ever 'spected to think about that way, and - well, between you, me an' Porthos here, I'm scared."

"Trip." For the first time his friend broke into a familiar smile, his hands flat and relaxed on the desk as he peered up at the younger man. "Whoever she is, she'll be flattered; and you know the anti-fraternisation rules don't count on my ship."

All the blood in his body flooded Trip Tucker's cheeks. "It's not a she," he whispered, fascinated by his scuffed toecaps.

Silence weighed him down. "Sorry?" Archer managed at last. Trip raised his head.

"It's not a she," he repeated loudly. 

Not even when he'd been told he was taking a Vulcan watchdog along for Enterprise's first ride had Jonathan Archer looked quite so thunderstruck. "I didn't realise you were..." he stammered completing the statement with a helpless wave of the hand. Tucker shrugged.

"If it helps - neither did I. Hell, I'm still not sure I am, but I must be, right? I mean, straight guys don't get those feelings, do they?"

"I guess not." Whether from relief that Hoshi's honour wasn't threatened or plain shock Archer appeared to be relaxing, his chin coming to rest on steepled fingers as he considered his friend. "Any idea how the lucky man feels about you?"

Just when he hadn't thought it possible to blush deeper, Tucker did. "I'm pretty sure he's straight," he confessed.

Archer snorted. "Trip, until a couple of minutes ago I'd have said the same about you," he said kindly. The Southerner felt his lips twitch.

"Yeah," he agreed drily. "Guess life's full of surprises. I shouldn't be usin' Hoshi as a shield, Cap'n, and I won't do it again. But if you think flirtin' with her's gonna cause a scandal, just think what two of your male senior officers gettin' involved'd do."

Engrossed in studying his boots he failed to realise what he'd given away and missed completely the puling-together of the older man's thick eyebrows. "I'd better go," he muttered, heartsick and too tired to deny it. "I mean - permission to return t' Engineerin', Sir?"

"Granted, Commander."

It was the pity in those two words that kept hot colour in Trip Tucker's face all the way back to his own domain. That, he conceded, and plain embarrassment at the fool he'd made of himself. And it was all Malcolm Reed's fault.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's accepted the change in his own feelings. Now he has to deal with them not being reciprocated. Right?

No, he amended the following morning, watching the handsome Englishman striding toward the bridge half an hour before Alpha shift was due to start; it was that damned future book's. Or Josh's. Or - just maybe - it was his for getting himself all hung up on a few unverifiable words. 

Not that it mattered. Malcolm was straight. Trip was sure of it.

Okay. Maybe proving he was off-limits would shatter the fantasies that tormented him at night. Maybe instead of hiding he should do what his Daddy always said: front up, be a man and get it over with.

Tucker was delighted with his new plan.

He put it into progress the next time he had an excuse to wander along to the bridge on shift: gave Hoshi a friendly grin that widened to encompass Travis, but stopped dead at the tactical console, just keeping beyond a more-than-friendly distance from the man scanning it. "Whatcha got, Lieutenant?"

Reed started visibly. "Oh, er, nothing of note, Commander," he stuttered, his fingers briefly stilled on the console. Tucker swayed back.

"Pity," he said loudly. "Cap'n, is it just me or is this region a little _dull?_ "

"Be careful what you wish for, Commander." The grin he received from the big chair looked friendlier from this angle, Tucker decided; as if proximity to the comm. station took a man further from the heart of the sun. "Nothing worth our attention on the scanners, Lieutenant?"

"There's a large nebula at extreme range if you're as bored as Commander Tucker, Sir." Evidently Malcolm was basking in the renewed warmth too, just a flicker of a mocking glance leaking his neighbour's way. Archer twisted, head already cocked to the science station.

"There is nothing unusual in the composition, Captain," T'Pol announced. Every human present, Trip knew, could anticipate the reaction from the big chair.

"Well, we've got nothing better to do," Archer said lightly. "Travis, alter course. Malcolm..."

"All scanners locked, Sir." Brisk and businesslike, the Englishman focussed on the scrolling data before him, not even flinching when Tucker hung over his shoulder to stare.

He stayed in position as long as he dared, timing each breath to the calm, level ones of his friend. If he noticed, Malcolm didn't object.

Reeds, Tucker knew, didn't make a fuss or draw attention to themselves. But uptight introverts usually, in his limited experience of a breed he'd usually tried to avoid, would tense up when their jealously-guarded personal space was remotely threatened. Malcolm, whose lips thinned and whose posture got stiff when caught in a crowd leaving movie night, didn't falter.

_That just means he's comfortable around you, Tucker._

More, Trip conceded, than could be said for himself as he inhaled the dark-haired lieutenant's scent - faint traces of sandalwood, shampoo and the salt tang of a day's sweat. His pants felt tight, their fabric coarse against sensitive skin. His body reacted to the slivers of fantasy snagged inside his brain. Facing the other man's sanguinity he wanted to kick and scream against his own lack of control.

Still, at least he knew now; Reed didn't suspect. His head might be screwed, but his dignity was intact.

*

As only a Tucker could, he risked it all over again after his shift. "Hey, Mal. Comin' for dinner?" he hollered, approaching from the turbolift as Reed reached the mess door. The Englishman spun on his heel, head cocked and arms across his chest.

"That _was_ rather the idea," he drawled, swaying gracefully aside to allow a pair of chattering crewmen through ahead. "Ensign Sato's working late."

"Huh? Oh!" Probably blushing wasn't the best way to disclaim a specific interest but, thrown off-balance, incoherence was his best defence. "Figure I've embarrassed her enough. She's just a friend, and I'd be real grateful if folks'd remember that."

"Sorry." Reed bit his lip. "I'm going for the lime marinated hake with spiced potatoes, I think. You?"

"Sounds good." It made a change from meatloaf, Tucker reasoned; and there was banoffee pie for dessert, just the kind of sugar rush he needed. "You mind if I join you?"

Real warmth touched the brunet's angular features. "I'd be pissed off if you didn't, considering your calling me back allowed Mayweather to grab the corner table," he quipped, helping himself to a tray and thrusting another into Tucker's hands. "Evening, Chef. You haven't forgotten you're down for your self-defence refresher tomorrow afternoon?"

Tucker swung back on instinct from the blade flashing in the burly cook's flabby hand. "You reminded me at breakfast, Lieutenant," he groused. Reed's mouth twitched. "And lunch."

"I know how busy you are, and the course _is_ mandatory," he murmured, scooping an extra portion of buttery carrots before the bristling server could object. "Treacle tart, please."

There was courage, then there was plain foolhardiness. Trip wasn't sure whether to admire or call Phlox for an immediate psychological assessment. "You don't get enough danger bein' armoury officer or somethin'?" he breathed.

Only when he felt Reed shiver did he realise exactly how close he'd got, the words fanning out over the smaller man's ear. "Chef's a vicious bastard with a carving knife, Commander, but he lacks control," the Brit replied, leading the way toward a two-seater table close to the doors. "I'd have him on his arse before he could make a move."

"No kiddin'." Sliding into his seat opposite, Tucker could feel his muscles ping with tension's release. He was being a jerk. This was natural; spending time with Malcolm, his buddy. "You'd just be eatin' protein packs for a month after!"

"m, point taken."Reed grinned hugely, oblivious to the jump-start applied to his friend' heart. "He's a sneaky sod: wouldn't put it past him to spit in my soup tomorrow! Hey, what happened with Callis and Morgan, did you hear? Apparently they're at no-speaks from some kind of fallout."

"Gossip, Lieutenant?"

"Information-gathering, Commander. So?"

Was that flirting? Maybe not on Malcolm's side. On his, Trip wasn't so sure.

Two hours later, with Chef's theatrical cough as he switched off the main lights still ringing in their ears, the two officers stowed their drained mugs, shoved their trays back onto the shelves and ambled into a quiet hallway both wiping streaming eyes. "I'm glad you decided against pursuing Hoshi tonight, Trip," Reed announced, stepping back to allow the bigger man to summon the turbolift. "I've had dinner with Travis for the last few nights, and he's useless for scuttlebutt. Any idea what film they're planning tomorrow?"

"One of the early Bonds I think." It had been his call but Tucker wasn't willing to admit it, even when his friend's whoop of delight echoed around the cubicle. "You goin'?"

"Save us a seat if you get there first." Stepping off the elevator Reed hesitated, seemingly reluctant to take the left, away from his companion's route. "Always assuming..."

"I'll be there." Confirmation won him one of those odd little half-salutes sometimes thrown the captain's way when Malcolm was especially pleased with a command decision. It kept a big, sappy grin on Trip's face all the way back to his quarters.

When the fantasy crept up on him, naked and drowsy an hour later, he didn't try to fight it off. The hand manipulating his dick was pale, a rough callus at the base of the index finger. The eyes locked on his, hypnotising him with their erotic intent, were the dark grey of an impending storm shot through with lightning's silver streaks. Pleasure thrumming through his bloodstream Tucker succumbed, screaming out his lover's name without reservation.

"Malcolm!"

*

He was sure he blushed when the lieutenant ambled up to his table at breakfast next day, but Reed showed no sign of noticing and they fell easily into a friendly debate over the necessity of diverting even more resources into an upgrade of the extreme-range targeting scanners. By the time they gulped the last cold dregs of their coffee Tucker was sufficiently relaxed to clout his friend on the back and suggest meeting for lunch without a hint of ulterior motive.

He told himself he didn't notice how when Malcolm beamed it seemed like lights in the room had switched themselves to maximum, then all but skipped to Engineering past caring whether he was making a fool of himself or not. He was - and he didn't care how dumb it made him - falling in love.

Like any dribbling sap with a crush he couldn't stay away from the unwitting object of his affections. Mid morning found him striding back to the bridge with a cocky smile and a noisy greeting, pulling himself up at the Tactical Officer's shoulder. "You don't mind me comin' up all the time, Cap'n?" he hollered, his grin widened by the minimal stiffening of the First Officer's posture. "There's nothin' goin' on, so I figure I've got time to come enjoy the view from the good seats."

A mighty fine view it was, he added silently, watching Malcolm twist from his console to the wall-mounted screens and back, the fabric of his jumpsuit tightening around that shapely English ass with every little movement. Caught up in admiring it Trip didn't move when the other man did, causing Reed to cannon into him at hip and thigh. "Ouf! Sorry, Commander." 

"My fault, Lieutenant." Still, his body refused the brain's command. Reed had to shuffle around him, just the faintest trace of heat warming his pale skin. He might have been wrong, but Trip almost thought the usually confident touch faltered on the Englishman's console.

_No way. He's straight. He's just embarrassed by the whole physical contact thing. He's sure as hell not affected by you _ is he?_

*

The seed was planted and Tucker found himself watching his friend more intently because of it, taking every opportunity to get close: stretching across him at the breakfast counter; squeezing in alongside him in a quiet changing room when they arrived almost together at the gym.

He studied the Englishman's interaction with their crewmates and felt his heart rate stutter every time Reed stiffened in close proximity to his neighbours. The tension that twanged his muscles was visible through all the layers of his uniform, and Tucker knew it didn't affect the dark-haired officer when _he_ got that little bit too close.

And instead of a thin-lipped, nostril-flaring glare, he got a flutter of the long sable lashes and the smallest nip of a well-cut bottom lip.

The smug smirk on Josh's face outside the 602 half a lifetime ago replayed incessantly in Tucker's head. What was the worst that could happen?

Six weeks in sickbay, his disobedient mind supplied. Or a one-way trip through a torpedo tube. 

_What the hell? We're out here for adventure, aren't we?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope. Isn't it the worst thing of all?

"Dammit, what are they _doin'_ up there?" Engineering had been monitoring a power drain for the last fifteen minutes and now it was spiking off the screen, which to Trip Tucker could only mean one thing. "If that's comin' from the fuckin' armoury again... Rostov! Shut down the auxiliary power grid, that'll spike their fuckin' guns."

"Uh, Sir?" From behind the great bulk of the warp reactor the unfortunate crewman waved at his chief's back. 

"It's coming from the science labs," he finished, letting the weary words rebound off the rapidly closing door.

From the other side of the section Jennifer Kelly's voice echoed strangely into a crippling silence. "Oops!"

Oblivious to the premonitions of disaster sparked in his subordinates' breasts Commander Tucker stalked the hallways of Enterprise with a thunderous expression, mentally listing all the names he was going to throw at that insubordinate reckless damned Limey gun-freak when he got him pinned against the wall. He wasn't even slightly slowed by the sight of an open armoury door. The first hoot of melodious laughter rolled right over his head.

"I'd be careful of bragging about the Bundesliga if I were you, Seb. Three-nil the other week wasn't it?"

_Wait a minute! Seb?_

European sports were hardly Tucker's thing, but crew nicknames were a speciality. _Seb? I've never heard him call the guy anything less formal than_ Mister Mueller! _He calls him_ Seb?

"One win in eight years, Lieutenant." Mueller, it seemed, wasn't quite brave enough to address his departmental chief as _Mal_ : which, Tucker acknowledged as he thrust his way through the door, was just as well. In his present mood, he'd likely deck the first useful target that presented itself.

"Commander." His subconscious registered the lack of frenetic activity around the same time his libido reacted to the sight of a full-blown _Malcolm_ smile and his inner pre-teen began a hissy fit that it should be directed at anyone but himself.

Torn between so many conflicting sensations coherent speech was fortunately beyond him for a few precious seconds. "It's not you," was what he eventually produced.

"I'm glad to hear it, but - what's not me?" The smallest nod was all Reed required to send his subordinate scuttling across the armoury. Smoothly the lieutenant turned back to his workstation, making it natural for Tucker, staggered by his own composure, to follow and lean in over the slighter man's shoulder.

"The power drain," he stated pointlessly. "You're not doin' anything."

"Reputation preceding me, is it?" Malcolm glanced up, ice blue mischief flashing through the steely depths of those fascinating eyes. The breath snagged in Trip's throat.

_So damn beautiful._

"Uh - maybe. Sorry."

So close. He could feel the faintest tickle of the Brit's breath against his face, almost hear the soft rustle of his exhale. "No problem," Reed replied, the light tone at odds with the unnerving intensity of his gaze. "But as you can see - nothing happening here."

Nothing, Tucker amended silently, except the thickening of the air inside the armoury and the identical reaction in the weight he carried in his pants. "I didn't know you looked out for the soccer results, Lieutenant," he murmured, content to stay up close and personal as long as he was permitted. Malcolm shrugged.

"When it offers the chance - all too rarely - to take the piss out of my German friend there, Commander..."

From beyond the aft torpedo bay somebody snorted. Reed grinned. "I never thought..." Tucker began vaguely.

The changeable grey orbs that filled his vision hardened. Chilled. Malcolm, he realised, was being subsumed into Lieutenant Reed. 

Sometimes, he hated Lieutenant Reed. 

"That the stuck-up Brit would know how to laugh with his subordinates?" Low and grated, each word punctured his flesh like a dagger's point: the air had both thinned out and gotten blast-chilled around them. Frantic, Trip picked up his shovel and started digging.

"No, I mean, it's not like that, but you're just so fuckin' _formal_ , y' know? Hell, these guys'd run through fire for you, I know that, but I never had you down as that kind of boss."

"If you have a complaint about my command style, Sir, I suggest you take it up with the First Officer."

"Dammit, Malcolm!" He was close to shouting and Tucker didn't care. "That's not what I mean and - aw, shit! You comin' to Tanner's party tonight?"

"I was intending to pop in for half an hour, Commander, yes."

"Please, Mal." It was minimal, but the diminutive seemed to relax the other man; and Trip was ready to grab at any straw. "I wasn't _asking_ as an officer; I'm screwin' up on that big-time. I was sayin' as a friend, I'd like to have a drink with you there. That okay?"

Subtlety wasn't his thing either but being around Malcolm had taught Trip more than any Tucker ever needed to know, and the unspoken apology was accepted with an alacrity that made his heart sing. "In that case - I'll probably wander in about twenty hundred. They shouldn't be too plastered by that stage and there might even be something edible left."

"I'll save you somethin' good." The pledge elicited another of those wide, natural smiles, and the knowledge it was all for him flipped Trip Tucker's innards over. "Guess I'd better go see who's pullin' all that power out of my engines. See you later, buddy."

He only just stopped himself skipping along the corridor. This was crazy. He was setting himself up for the galaxy's biggest fall.

But he couldn't stop himself. Not now. Just being near the man was addictive, and like any junkie he was already anticipating his next fix. 

When he finally hit the science section on D Deck they got off far more lightly than they'd expected. It wasn't often the Chief Engineer delivered his bawling-out in a sing-song tone and with a sappy smile on his face.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe "knowing the future" isn't such a bad thing after all...

By twenty one hundred hours he'd all but abandoned hope, toying with a handful of Chef's chocolate pecan cookies by the buffet and smiling weakly at anyone who happened to catch his eye. The fine cotton of his subdued light blue shirt chafed like goat's hair. His vital organs felt cold. Watery. He'd been stood up, and they hadn't even gotten around to dating yet.

Gloomily he turned to survey the remnants of a proud buffet, letting his carefree mask fall and his face twist into a mocking grimace. Dating. They couldn't change a power cell without starting a fight. Maybe fantasy Malcolm was a better fit for him than the flesh-and-blood man whose concerned face he could see peeking over his left shoulder.

Over his...“ _Dammit!_

"Oh, hi, Mal." Feigned casualness that wouldn't fool a Vulcan but it was the best Trip could muster in the face of that oh-so-appealing little frown. "I thought you'd stood me up."

He could feel the blush racing up his throat and awkwardly he cringed away from the tables into deeper shadow. "As if I'd be that rude, Commander," his friend cooed before snapping one of the precious cookies from Trip's plate. "I assume Hurricane Travis has passed the tables already?"

"Twice." Debonair in black slacks and a soft grey sweater, Reed laughed softly before dabbing the crumbs of his snack from puckered lips. "You wanna grab us a table? Pineapple rum or scotch?"

"I'll have a large rum if there's enough left from Hoshi's last party." With a grin that made their surroundings wobble - from Tucker's perspective at least - Reed sauntered away to claim a discreet table at the far end of the mess. 

When he sat down it registered that he was still being stared at. "Trip?" he mouthed, miming the pouring of liquor into a glass. Tucker jumped.

"Sorry," he mouthed back, taking his time over the dispensing of the alcohol while his high colour subsided and his skittish heart rate slowed down. Making an ass of himself wasn't going to help. He needed to be relaxed. Witty. Good company. He needed...

"Aw, fuck!" 

The quiet expletive was drowned by the shriek of a demented hen emanating from the sound system. He needed to be himself, and hope that was good enough. Malcolm liked him, and if he was ever going to get that liking to move the way he wanted...

Before he could finish the though Tucker snatched up their brimmed glasses and almost shoved his way through the melee toward their table. "Sorry," he said, too loud to his own sensitised ears. "Got distracted for a minute."

"Large tits, or a tight arse?"

Chef's best scotch burned his mouth like acid. "What?" Tucker yelped. Reed cocked an eyebrow.

"Well obviously _something_ distracted you," he said tartly, diverting his eyes to scan the pulsating dance-floor crowd. "And it must've been something female to have your tongue hanging out like a thirsty dog's!"

"You reckon?" Trip challenged.

"I reckon." 

The Southerner knew it was insane to try out-staring their resident poker-face but he couldn't stop himself. And after an eternity it was Malcolm who buckled, dropping his gaze to the pristine tabletop. "Whoever she is, she'll be flattered," he muttered.

_Well I'll be... Was that - disappointment?_

Now he _knew_ he was going crazy!

"I wasn't oglin' one of the girls, Malcolm," he promised, folding his hands on the table to prevent them reaching out for that strong yet fine-drawn face. "I was just thinking, is all."

"I'm told that's quite dangerous," Reed replied, outward seriousness belied by the softening around his mouth. Trip shrugged.

"Sometimes a guy just can't help it."

"Hmm, that's ominous."

"Sure is." Especially when your whole life seemed to be turning on its head before your eyes, but Tucker thought better of saying that - yet. He picked up his glass and slugged the contents in one go. "Maybe this'll stop it," he spluttered.

"More likely to land you in Sickbay with a creepy-crawly sucking the booze out through your skin," Malcolm volunteered, sipping his rum more delicately. Trip snorted.

"Aw, now you're puttin' me off my liquor!"

"I'll put the kettle on instead, shall I?"

"Don't you dare!" Instinctively his hand shot out to stay the younger man's movement. Trip felt seared to the bone in a nanosecond. More softly, unaware of his fingers still curling around Reed's, he added, "You'll only use it as an escape route, right?"

"I can't be doing with all this noise." Like a stunned seal Reed was staring at their joined hands but making no move Tucker could detect to disengage them. "I envy T'Pol, sometimes. Nobody expects a Vulcan to be sociable."

"She'd only be tellin' Tanner it's illogical to celebrate bein' older." Now two pairs of eyes were trained on the same point. It was beginning to make him feel queasy. Malcolm's fingers hadn't tensed. His nostrils weren't flared as if there was something stinky right underneath them. And when he laughed, the smallest shimmer of the sound seemed to travel from his covered fingertips up into Tucker's palm. 

"And she'd probably be right," he murmured, bringing up his head so slowly it took forever for their eyes to lock. "Ouf!"

"Sorry, Lieutenant!" Boomers. The worst sense of occasion in the universe Tucker was certain, willing himself to stay in his chair while Mayweather veered wildly off Malcolm's shoulder and into the crowd. The Englishman's hand yanked free. He stiffened in his seat. 

The spell, so intoxicating, so seductive, was shattered. Trip wanted to scream.

But - maybe afraid of drawing attention to himself - Malcolm didn't bolt. "How old d' you reckon she is, anyway?" he said, swirling the little remaining dark fluid in the bottom of his glass. "T'Pol, I mean. She's got to be the oldest member of the crew."

"It's gotta be in her file." He didn't want to speculate about T'Pol. The less time he spent thinking about her, the better: she still managed to make him feel like a naughty four-year-old sometimes, even after all they'd been through at Johnny's side. "Guess we could hack into it, if you really need to know."

"It's rather funny to think of her being an old crone - by our standards, anyway." Like a physical presence he could feel the mortification leaving his companion's body in the gust of laughter that accompanied Reed's words. "Get you another drink?"

"Thanks." Not being coerced into staying. That wasn't normal.

_Neither was letting you hold his hand, buddy._

He kept his eyes down when the other man returned; and kicked himself for it the moment he felt the slightest pressure of a thigh against his hip, Malcolm leaning in just a tad closer than was friendly to plant a refilled glass in front of him. He looked up just in time to watch sharp white teeth cut through a fine-drawn lower lip before Reed eased back into his chair opposite.

It was tentative - easy to misread. But, every sense heightened by his own reactions to this man, Tucker was ninety-eight percent sure that move had been flirtatious.

With a noisy sigh he shuffled down lower in his seat, stretching his legs until his toecap stopped against the squeakily-polished perfection of his companion's smart black shoe. Reed didn't move.

Just the corner of an eyebrow seemed to twitch. "Did you, ah, find out what was causing that power drain?" he murmured.

"Huh?" Power drain. Yes, Tucker remembered something about one of those. "Oh, T'Pol told the meteorology staff to run some upgrades to their sensors - not realisin' they'd cause a fluctuation in the power grid across the whole fuckin' ship. She apologises real pretty when she's cornered."

"Pity you couldn't film it; you'd pack out next movie night." Above the table there was no movement, but down below, Reed's foot moved until it was fully alongside the other man's, pressing in tight. 

Just how, Trip reflected, he wanted to be all the way up to the mouth.

"Nah," he floundered, aware a response was expected while his pants got tighter and his blood began to boil. "You know that nerve pinch thing she does? It looks _nasty_."

"Hmm, good point." Now they were damn near playing footsie, and Trip hadn't done that with anyone since high school. "Still, I'd like to hear Madam Condescension admitting to having fucked up occasionally."

"She said it'd never happened before." Both men tipped their glasses in ironic salute, silence blanketing their corner in honour of fine liquor before, wearily, Malcolm eased himself to his feet.

"Suppose I'd better be off, then," he said, reluctance in every sinewy line of him and a slim hand lingering on the back of his chair. Trip's almost hit the deck in his rush to get upright.

"I'll come with you," he blurted before panic slammed him like a rock to the chest. "I mean, I'm about done, too. Mind if I..."

"Not at all."

It should have been a common courtesy. There was no reason for a man's whole being to light up like Malcolm Reed's did in that moment. Dazzled, Tucker cannoned off two lip-locked shipmates before he managed to fall into the younger officer's wake. 

Once they were clear of the mess doors Reed hesitated, allowing his friend to come alongside. "Y- you don't have to walk me home, you know," he ventured, uncertainty making him stutter. "I've only had a couple."

"I'm a sociable kind of guy." The nerves were contagious; Tucker could feel them crawling like a swarm of insects in his gut but the sensation was glorious, the ship around him glowing brighter, his perceptions heightened until he thought he could feel the other man's heartbeat alongside his own. His mouth opened and the words exploded into the confines of the turbolift. "In fact, I'd better see you right to your door - if that's okay with you."

"That' s... fine."

The regulation response emerged on a chuckle, as if Malcolm couldn't believe he was using it himself. "That is, I'D like that," he amended hastily, hanging back when the door opened, instinct commanding he let a superior officer go ahead. Deliberately Trip held back.

"No ranks," he breathed, captivated by the thin line of rose that was climbing out from beneath high neck of Malcolm's cashmere sweater. It deepened and spread when the Englishman's head dipped in a minimal nod, like the tingling heat in Tucker's stomach.

Which bloomed up under his ribcage on the short walk to Reed's quarters, forcing the giddy question up onto his tongue. "Uh, Malcolm? Would you come on a date with me?"

"Yes."

All the weeks of agonising, he thought in the split second before pure exhilaration flooded his spinning head. All the tying himself in knots, hope and panic all swirled together. And it all came down to a single, short word.

_Yes._

Malcolm was interested. Malcolm liked him.

"Hot damn!"

"Or words to that effect."

Tucker's eyes narrowed. "You laughin' at me, Mister Reed?"

It wasn't until the title emerged he realised how flirtatious it sounded. Not that Malcolm seemed offended. 

"As if I'd dare," he purred - actually purred - while swaying until he brushed the taller man's chest. "I'm just a bit shocked, that's all. I mean yes, it's seemed like you've been flirting with me recently, but - _really?_ You'd never be interested in a stuck-up, introverted rank-obsessive like me."

"Wouldn't I?" Was that really how he saw himself, Tucker wondered; then gave himself a mental kicking when he considered the words he might have used back at the start of this cruise to describe the uptight Brit who thought the only place that mattered was his under-prepared armoury. "How about dinner Tuesday? I could pick you up, then we could go to the movie..."

He heard himself tail off, the hesitation in his voice painful. "Unless you think that's too much," he finished lamely.

"It's hardly going to cause comment if we sit together," Reed replied lightly. "Oh! But of course if you're bothered people might talk..."

"Malcolm." Dammit, why did they always wind up at cross purposes? Trusting to his actions for the eloquence his tongue never quite seemed to find Trip snatched the other man's hands. "I'd be proud to walk into the mess wearin' a sign, but you're so private... If you're okay with it, I'll pick you up say, eighteen-thirty hours?"

"I'm okay." Cautiously, as if he were afraid Tucker might melt away if he moved too fast, Reed brought their hands to his face, rubbing the Southerner's knuckles against his cheek. "A bit giddy, but... you're sure you want this?"

"More than anything." Saying it reinforced the conviction seared into his marrow and the words that had haunted him for the last six weeks re-formed before Trip's glowing eyes. _Married: Malcolm Reed._

"Sonofabitch," he breathed, standing there staring at the Englishman's door long after it had been closed in his face. "What kind of a dumbass does that make me not to have thought of that myself!"


End file.
